


Four Needle Marks and a Scar

by MissMM



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drugs, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-02 19:38:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMM/pseuds/MissMM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock nearly looses his life to an overdose of heroin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. This was supposed to be an exercise for me, I wanted to write Sherlock strung out on drugs. And then I had an idea for a plot, and it all went downhill from there.

Sherlock was missing, John was sure of it. He’d called Lestrade more times than he could count to try and find him, but of course the Yarders wasn’t having any luck. It had been two days, almost three. The last time John had seen him, he was frustrated and looking for his cigarettes again. Then he’d gotten a text.

John was kicking himself for not demanding to read that text. He’d seen Sherlock’s face turn paper white, the way he’d glanced at John and then out the window. It was so bloody obvious something was badly wrong, and yet he’d let him pull on his coat, turn up the collar and walk out the door without a word of protest. To be fair to himself, he did ask him where he was going. All he’d gotten in response was a quiet, “Out.” 

John originally thought Mycroft must’ve called him with some family news, but when Sherlock didn’t respond to his texts, he began to suspect. He’d disappeared before, but he’d always left hints. There’d been a note in John’s book he’d just bought secondhand, or a pair of new things in the fridge that started with the letters S and H. Sometimes Sherlock had taken the direct route and told him (in the vaguest, most open-for-interpretation way possible) that he’d be gone for a day or so. 

Walking out the door without a hint of where he was going or what he needed to do? That was unheard of.

John flipped open his phone for the millionth time, checking if he’d missed a text from anybody. He was on the verge of phoning Mycroft, he was so worried. Sherlock hadn’t been in contact with anyone for nearly three days. Mrs. Hudson was beside herself that the police couldn’t find him. John wasn’t sure exactly what she’d said to Lestrade when he’d come to the flat, but he’d never seen the DI so pale before. 

He tapped his foot on the floor for a while, thinking. Thankfully, or maybe not so thankfully, he had the week off work. 

_Damn. Damn, damn, damn._ John obsessively checked his phone again. Nothing, of course. He hesitated, and then opened his contact list, scrolling to Mycroft’s number.

 _I can only imagine what he’s doing, middle of the day on a weekend._ It was ringing out. _I swear, if he doesn’t pick up..._

“Ah, hello John.”

“Hello, Mycroft.”

“What can I do for you?”

“It’s your brother.” A sigh.

“Oh dear, what’s he done now?”

“Nothing. He’s gone. Has been for a couple days.” Silence.

“And he hasn’t left you any indication of his leaving?”

“None whatsoever.”

“I do apologize, John, but I find that very hard to believe, seeing as my men have informed me that Sherlock has not left your flat at all in two days and eight hours.”

“That can’t be right. It can’t be, he got a text two nights ago, put on his coat and left. I haven’t heard from him since.” Mycroft was silent again.

“Well, we do have ourselves a problem. But I may have an answer to a...special question.”

“For God’s sake, you may not care, but I’m actually worried about Sherlock.” John couldn’t care less about offending him; if anyone could find Sherlock, it’d be Mycroft.

“Dr. Watson, rest assured, my care is rising by the second. Sherlock’s sudden deviation from his life with you explains Moriarty’s sudden silence.” John stayed quiet, hoping he’d elaborate. “Moriarty is usually active in his own passive way, but these past couple days he has been remarkably still. I would argue that Sherlock received a text from dear old Jim, probably threatening harm to you, that gave him specific instructions to do something.”

“Mycroft, if that has happened, we need to find Sherlock now. I’ve got half of Scotland Yard riled up, but God knows they won’t be able to find him if he doesn’t want to be found.”

“John, has it ever occured to you that if he doesn’t want to be found, I won’t be able to find him either? Although, I suppose if I spread the word that you’re looking for him...no. No, Moriarty’s ears would pick that up long before my dear brother’s.” John could practically hear Mycroft pass a hand over his eyes. “You want my advice, do you, John?”

“Nah, I just called to ask about the weather and Korean politics.”

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, John. It looks as if the only thing you can do that will produce reliable results is wait. I’m sorry, I truly am. I’ll put out my fingers.” He paused. “I grew up with him, John. I don’t want him to get--”

“Don’t. I’ll call you when I see him.” John hung up, more than a little shaken.

***

John was wandering.

There really wasn’t another word for it. He’d taken the tube to somewhere, and now he was wandering around London, surrounded by throngs of tourists. It was maybe 9:30 at night, so the pubs were filling up. An odd mix of two Scottish girls, an Irishman and several Americans were making their way to the nearest one now. The Irishman was telling a story so fast that the blonde American woman was constantly saying, “What? What?” as the Scots looked on, obviously bamboozled. 

Despite the clamor around him, John kept glancing out the corner of his eye for Sherlock’s profile, and wincing internally when it was nowhere to be found. 

Eventually, he found himself in a quieter (albeit more dangerous) part of the city. He wasn’t particularly worried; his time in the service hadn’t left him defenseless. 

John strolled down the street, looking over the seedy cafes and various clothing stores. He spotted a small street that led to some kind of statue and went down it. He looked up and down the work. It was rather nice, a man on a horse and all that. Graffiti was covering nearly every bit of it except the man’s hat. Perhaps the vandalists couldn’t be bothered. 

John went around the statue. His foot caught on something that sent him sprawling on the pavement. He swore and held his chin; that was going to leave a nasty cut in the morning. He twisted around to see what had tripped him up.

He’d walked straight over a man. The guy was obviously high as a kite, he’d barely moved when John had fallen on him. The doctor in John kicked in and he squatted next to the man, looking him over.

_That coat, rather posh for a bum. Wonder if he stole...oh my God. No. It can’t be, how stupid would he have to..._

John grabbed the man’s shoulder and turned him over. 

There was no mistaking it. He had stubble, his hair and face were dirty, and his mouth and eyes were half-open, but it was definitely Sherlock Holmes, lying under a statue in a Godforsaken part of London.

And John Watson had just happened to stumble onto him. _That’s likely._ “Sherlock, Sherlock can you hear me?” Sherlock groaned, his eyes fluttering. “Come on, don’t be like that. It’s me, what happened to you?”

“John...” And that scared him more than anything else, that garbled, barely audible name. John hooked his arms under Sherlock’s and lifted, but the noises Sherlock was making were too terrible for him to continue. He put him back down and stripped off Sherlock’s coat. _Dammit._ His sleeves were rolled up-- _On both arms! What the hell?_ \--and some of the puncture wounds were still bleeding slightly. _Heroin, then. Wonderful, just great. What the hell did that text say?_ John put a protective hand on Sherlock’s forehead and pulled out his mobile.

“Mycroft, I’ve found him. I dunno where I am, trace my mobile or something like that. Just send someone, fast. Heroin, looks like. He might have been beaten.” Sherlock bumped his head against John’s hand. “Just hang on, Sher, somebody’s coming to help you.”

***

It wasn’t until the ambulance that Sherlock started to panic. He had been fine until then, as long as John was in his line of sight. His eyes were dull, which was terrifying in and of itself, but they didn’t leave John’s face. He kept trying to say something, but it was constantly coming out slurred and broken with yips of pain. Eventually, John put a hand over his mouth when he tried to say it again, which kept him quiet for a while.

But when the ambulance finally arrived, he lost it. He started to struggle, and even though it was weak and uncoordinated, he still had leverage on John and the ambulance men. And he kept moaning and babbling incoherently. The only word John could make out was, “No.”

Sherlock flung out an arm as a last-ditch attempt to make them let him go, and caught John squarely in the temple. He staggered backwards, not hurt, just caught off his guard. Sherlock failed to notice, as the men had finally caught his arms and were shoving him into the back of the ambulance, which naturally made him panic more. John shook his head to clear it and said to the attendant, “Can I ride with him? I might be able to calm him down.” The woman nodded.

John climbed into the back and his heart twinged as he saw his friend being restrained. The ambulance workers were having less trouble now, as Sherlock was getting tired and was obviously still strung out on...whatever the hell he’d injected into his system. But the look of misery and confusion on his face was enough to make John want to unstrap him and let him do whatever he damn well pleased. 

Sherlock was well and truly tied down now. His head was rolling his head from side to side and his hands were tapping irrationally. Even that, however, was becoming less focused, and his gaze eventually drifted into a corner of the ambulance as his movements stilled. 

“Sherlock?” No reaction. “Sherlock, it’s John.” His head moved towards John’s voice. “You stay awake, ok? Don’t fall asleep.” 

John swore that he could hear Sherlock mumble the word, “Boring,” as he found John again. John let out a sigh he didn’t know he’d been holding. He reclined into the wall of the van, only to sit up again, as that apparently took him out of Sherlock’s line of sight. Sherlock was wriggling his wrist around in some kind of attempt to get himself closer to John. John scooted forward and took his friend’s hand.

Sherlock went still. His fingers were ice cold, but John could feel his pulse. It was terribly slow, almost nonexistent. John covered those pale fingers with his own, noticing a small burn scar on Sherlock’s pointer, near the last knuckle. It looked a bit old, maybe he got it when he was a kid? John snorted. It was far too easy to imagine a small, messy-haired boy playing with Mummy Holmes’ stove because he was curious as to how a gas flame worked. 

Sherlock’s fingers were twitching slightly. His eyes were fixed on John, the pupils pinpointed. _Another bad sign. Christ, how much did he take?_ Sherlock’s lips were moving, but no sounds were coming out. “Sherlock, just calm down, ok? We’re going to get you to a hospital. I won’t leave you.” Sherlock’s head drooped and he closed his eyes. “No, Sherlock, stay awake!” John yanked his hand.

The EMTs finished taking Sherlock’s vitals and one of them said, “Alright, we’ve got maybe half an hour.”

John looked up, alarmed. “He’s not...that’s not going to happen, is it?”

The man bit his lip. “At this point, it looks like he’s been beaten, injected with heroin and then dumped right where you were walking, Dr. Watson. I can’t tell for sure, but he may have a punctured lung. Whoever beat him knew what they were doing.”

“Wait, injected with it? He’s done drugs before, you sure he didn’t just get high and then, I don’t know, fall down some stairs?”

“He’s done drugs before?” John bit his tongue. “That might save his life. He’ll have a high tolerance for it, which increases his chances quite a bit. If he comes to, he’ll have his own version of what happened, but I’m convinced that he didn’t do the heroin himself. He’s got two needle marks on both arms, the angle can’t be from his own hands, and he’s got signs of somebody holding his arms and wrists. Also looks like somebody punched him a good deal. Now, you said you’re his flatmate?”

John realized his mouth was open and quickly shut it. “I, uh, yeah. He’s been gone these past couple days and I was getting worried.”

The EMT looked incredulous. “He’d been gone for two days and you hadn’t worried until tonight?”

“If you lived with him, you’d understand.”

The EMT pursed his lips. “‘Spose with his brother being who he his, that makes a bit of sense.”

“Wait, Mycroft sent you?”

“Well, yeah. He’s not about to let some community hospital take care of his baby brother, is he?” Sherlock grunted unhappily at this. John squeezed his hand again. The EMT’s eyes flicked to their hands and back to John’s face, wearing a small smirk.

“I’m not above decking you in your own bloody ambulance,” John said, tracing the burn scar on Sherlock’s finger.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty be creepin'. That is all.

Sherlock was asleep. John was sitting as close as he could, resisting the urge to shake him awake to make sure he was ok. They’d put a nasal cannula on him, John wasn’t sure why. The doctors must’ve wanted to take as few chances as possible.

Mycroft had shown up for approximately ten seconds, long enough to question John (“Where, exactly, did you find him?” and “What was his reaction upon seeing you?”, among others) and stroke his brother’s forehead in the first display of affection John had ever seen between the two. It counted, even if one was unconscious.

John was gradually becoming more and more grateful that Sarah had given him this week off; he certainly wasn’t planning to go back to the clinic unless he absolutely had to. He’d already extracted a promise from several people that they would call him if there were any developments and he wasn’t there, but John much preferred to be with Sherlock, even if he was barely conscious. 

When Sherlock was alert (all fifteen minutes of it), he just sort of blinked at the ceiling and his surroundings as John explained to him where he was. John wasn’t sure why he wasn’t talking, it wasn’t like Sherlock to be quiet when something dramatic happened to him. 

Of course, the fact that he’d been shot full of heroin, knocked around a bit and God knows what else might have something to do with his silence. 

***

John was on the verge of sleep when the man came. He’d talked the attendants to letting him stay, just one night and after that he’d head home, he promised. So he’d settled into the least uncomfortable chair he could find and covered himself with Sherlock’s coat.

It was about 11:30, and John was technically awake. He was on that weird verge of sleep and alertness with his eyes open, but relaxed. His lids were cracked just a sliver and he was staring at the shadows the window made on Sherlock’s sleeping form. He was flat on his back with his head turned towards John, hair still tangled and dirty. Somebody had given him a sponge bath when he was admitted, but they’d neglected to clean out his hair. John was sleepily considering getting up and doing it himself, but he couldn’t seem to rustle up the will to make his limbs cooperate.

Good thing, too. The noise and light might have alerted Moriarty to his presence.

John was absolutely sure it was Moriarty. The door opening was what jerked him awake. The light from the door was enough to see the man entering was dark-haired and well-dressed, with his hands in his pockets. His gait, profile, tie, that was all John needed to be sure it was him.

Moriarty stood in the doorway for a moment, probably examining John to make sure he was asleep. John’s eyes were barely open; he could only see the bottom half of the room. Moriarty crossed to Sherlock’s bed and took something out of his suit pocket. It was all John could do not to leap out of his chair and wrestle whatever it was away from him, but the encounter at the pool had taught him that waiting was usually the best option, at least with this man.

Moriarty swiped his finger across the object. _Oh thank God, it’s just his mobile._ The light from the screen lit up his face, highlighting the odd expression he wore. He appeared almost...apologetic? Moriarty ran a finger from Sherlock’s collarbone to hand, holding his phone with the other hand and taking a picture. John heard the quiet click from the camera. 

“I can see why you stuck around, Doctor Watson. He’s a lovely thing to guard,” Moriarty said quietly, without taking his dark eyes off Sherlock. John clenched his jaw and didn’t move. _I can at least make him feel stupid for talking to a sleeping man._

Moriarty touched Sherlock’s face and left. John was having trouble containing his fury. He forced himself to count to one hundred, and then backwards. Then, to make the situation even more wonderful, he got a cramp and had to massage it out whilst hissing colorful words through his teeth. 

When he could, he stumbled up and over to Sherlock’s side, who was still dead to the world. John imagined black imprints where Moriarty had touched him and ran his finger where Moriarty had, trying to erase that feeling of violation on Sherlock’s behalf. He touched his face as well, stiffening in surprise when Sherlock moved into his hand. John hesitated, and then cupped Sherlock’s cheek, brushing some stray hair off his forehead. 

Sherlock shifted his position to be closer to John, mumbling softly. His lashes fluttered and the smallest of shivers went through his frame. John wondered off-handedly if Sherlock’s eating habits were involved in how badly he’d been affected, his hand still on his flatmate’s face. He also realized a moment too late that Sherlock was waking up.

Those silvery, pale eyes were fixed on John’s face. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock was lucid or not, but either way John wasn’t going to leave him. Sherlock blinked like an owl and seemed to notice that John’s hand was on his cheek. He said, so quietly John almost missed it, “Where am I?”

“A private hospital, Sherlock. Mycroft got you here.”

Sherlock blinked again, looking around, not breaking contact with John’s hand. He said, “I hurt. I hurt in my head, John.”

“You...erm, you overdosed on heroin, Sherlock.”

“I know.” John raised his eyebrows.

“You know? What happ--you know what, no.”

“John, I can tell you--”

“No, Sherlock, go back to sleep.” Sherlock looked as though he were about to protest, so John moved his hand from cheek to mouth. “Don’t. Sleep. I’m not going anywhere.” Sherlock nodded slightly and tried to say something. John removed his hand, unsure of where to put it next.

“John, could you, erm, stay?”

“Course, I’ll be right in that chair.”

“No, I mean, right here. With me. And keep touching me.” Sherlock’s eyes were huge, his mouth small. He looked as though he was afraid of being reprimanded. John had never heard his voice sound so young. 

“Course I will.” John pulled up a chair, and after some relocation of Sherlock’s bed, put his head and upper body on Sherlock’s chest with his arms under his head. It worked out nicely. Sherlock could maintain contact with someone and John could get some sleep with his very own consulting detective pillow. For half a second, John wondered what the nurse would think in the morning, and decided he didn’t give a toss. 

They drifted off together, with Sherlock’s scarred finger on John’s sleeve and John listening to Sherlock’s heartbeat.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be aware, there's talk of rape ahead.

John was woken by his phone ringing. It took him a moment, but eventually he realized he was still on Sherlock’s chest. The crumpled fabric had left a red print on his face and his back was sore. It was worth it to know he’d been able to comfort his best friend.

In the morning light, John was able to see the needle marks, all four of them. _Four. Was four shots of it really necessary? Think three would’ve done just fine._ Sherlock’s underarms were extraordinarily pale and his veins were standing out sharply. Some bruises were starting to color on his face, cheekbones in particular. From what John could see of his chest, he had some bad bruising on there as well.

John fished his phone out of his pocket and answered with a sleepy, “‘Lo?”

“It’s Mycroft. Please tell me you’re with my brother.”

“Course I am, I talked them into letting me stay the night.” Mycroft exhaled audibly.

“Thank God. Check your text messages and his, and then call me back. I’ve got various firings to ensure.” A feeling of apprehension grew in John’s belly as Mycroft hung up. As the call window closed, he saw that he did have a media text from a withheld number. John had a very bad feeling he knew exactly what the media message entailed.

He opened the message. It was a shadowy picture of Sherlock last night, with stripes of the window on his head and neck. Moriarty’s hand could just be seen, thumb on Sherlock’s collarbone. An audio message started to play. _I can see why you stuck around, Dr. Watson. He’s a lovely thing to guard._

John swallowed and went through the pockets of Sherlock’s duster, finding his phone. Of course, it was password protected. John would readily bet three month’s salary that Moriarty had sent Sherlock the same message, and Mycroft as well. With a different greeting, perhaps, but it was a solid bet that all three of them had gotten that lovely candid of Sherlock in a hospital bed. 

John called Mycroft back, not waiting for him to say hello. “What d’you think he’s trying to do?”

“Mess with our minds, I’d imagine. If he wanted Sherlock dead, not only would he be dead, but he’d be dead from some twisted maze or puzzle that Moriarty constructed. You didn’t happen to see him last night, did you?”

“Yeah, actually. He, erm, just came in and...” John gritted his teeth. “Touched Sherlock.”

“Good Lord, do you mean--”

“No!” John said far too loudly. “No, God no. He just ran his hand down his arm and touched his face. Then he took the picture and recorded that message to me and left.”

“Message?”

“Didn’t you get one? He said that he saw why I stayed for the night, because Sherlock’s a ‘lovely thing to guard,’” John said, doing a terrible impression of Moriarty’s brogue. 

“And what did his message to Sherlock entail?”

“His phone’s password-locked, can’t get in.”

“Wake him.”

“...No.”

“John, wake him. Now.”

“Mycroft, he’s just overdosed on heroin, _involuntarily_ , I might add, and as you’ve just told me, he’s not in any imminent danger from Moriarty. I’m going to bloody well let him sleep as long as he needs to.” Mycroft went silent, long enough that John was worried he’d crossed some Holmesian line. 

“I suppose...” He paused. “I suppose you’re right. I apologize. Call me back when he’s awake, has seen the text and told you what happened. Goodbye, John.” Click.

***

Sherlock was adamantly ignoring the tray of food in front of him, choosing to focus on his phone instead. He’d seen the text. His face had remained impassive, but John was sure he’d seen Sherlock go paler, if that was possible. An audio message had played for him too: _I didn’t actually mean for you to end up here. Terribly sorry, my dear. I suppose I’ll have to find something else to do now..._

“John.”

“Yes?”

“Moriarty, did he...did you see him come in last night?”

“Yeah, I did.” Sherlock apparently didn’t want to ask what he was thinking, but John answered it anyway. “He did touch you. He, uh, sort of stroked you from shoulder to hand and touched your face before he left.” Sherlock swallowed. He set his phone down quickly and put his hands under the tray, but not before John could see they’d started to tremble. “Sherlock, you alright?” Stupid, stupid question, but John wasn’t sure what to do. He hadn’t seen the detective this shaken since the night with the hound. 

Sherlock ran a shaking hand through his still-dirty hair and shook his head. He looked at John, who wasn’t surprised to see traces of tears in Sherlock’s eyes. “And that’s all he did? Just...” He turned his face away, “touched me? That’s all he did?”

“That’s it.” Sherlock snorted. “Sherlock, I swear I’m not trying to protect you, that’s all he did.”

“I know.” He still avoided eye contact. “It’s the thought that he was able to come in here and take a picture of me, while he was touching me...I don’t. Like. It.” He turned back to John, his eyes still overly bright. 

John stayed quiet for a moment, trying to find the right thing to say. “I didn’t like it either. I was worried that if I stopped pretending to be asleep he might...I dunno. Give the order to have us both gassed or something.” That got a shaky smile, at least. “Now, Sherlock, I know this might be hard for you--”

“You want to know what happened.” John nodded. Sherlock sighed and massaged his temple. “I don’t remember much after the second needle.”

“That’s ok, Sherlock. Just tell me what you do remember, ok?” John pulled up a chair and sat back where he slept last night. Sherlock’s eyes pleadingly flicked to John’s hands and back again. John smiled slightly and took one of his hands, the one with the scar on his finger. Sherlock had severe tremors, but his grip was tight. 

“The text that I received, very basic, threatening your life and the usual unless I came to the Shakespeare statue in Leicester Square. When I arrived, Moriarty was there. He told me in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t leave with him, you would be brutally beaten.”

“Moriarty was actually there? Not one of his men?”

“Yes, I don’t know why. I’d imagine it’s been long enough without a mildly clever client that he’d had enough time to come up with a scheme to keep himself distracted. When we got in the car, a man restrained me and Moriarty rolled up my left sleeve and injected me with heroin.” Sherlock passed a hand over his eyes. “He then proceeded to...crawl...on top of me and hold me down.” He clenched John’s hand. “After that it gets blurry, but I do remember Moriarty relieving me of my shirt and locating several of my pressure points. His nails were very sharp. I think I still have the marks. When it looked like I was starting to come out of it, he injected me on the other arm.” His hand was trembling even more severely. “I don’t...know what was in that one. It looked like heroin, but it made my vision blurry and I had little coordination or control over my body.”

“So he basically slipped you a roofie, wonderful,” John muttered. Sherlock didn’t look like he’d heard. John threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s, who was staring into the middle distance with that oddly blank expression. “Sherlock? You need to tell me what else you remember.”

Sherlock snapped his head to look at John, face still carefully blank. “That’s most of it. The next thing I remember is being put back in a car and dropped off where you found me. I don’t know when he injected me twice more, or what else...” He trailed off. John, again, didn’t know what to say. He rubbed his free hand against his brow.

“Sherlock, erm, there’s a test that you can take.”

“For what?”

“For...you know...” He clearly didn’t. John sighed. “Signs of sexual abuse.” 

Sherlock looked scandalized. “John, you think Moriarty _raped_ me?” He laughed, actually laughed a little.

“Don’t, Sherlock, just don’t. You didn’t see him last night, the way he was looking at you, like he just wanted to--” John cut himself off and let go of Sherlock’s hand in frustration.

The dark-haired man said, “Wanted to what? What on Earth would he want to do to me?”

John stared. “My God, you’re oblivious. You really haven’t picked up on it? What with the, ‘Hello sexy,’ and the way he’s obsessing over you and the playing a gay tech so he could get up close to you?”

“Well, when you put it like that...but, John, I don’t...I’m not...” Sherlock scrubbed his hands through his hair, struggling to find the words he wanted. John cottoned on.

“You don’t think you’re appealing?” He shrugged uncomfortably. John laughed. “Sherlock, you get scanned up and down by most women and the occasional man whenever we go out, and you don’t think you’re attractive.”

“I didn’t notice, and you know I don’t think about this sort of thing,” Sherlock said snippily. John shook his head.

“So you’ll take the test, then.”

“No.”

“Sherlock, I’m pretty sure I’ve got power of attorney over you, I can force you to do this.”

“John, think about this. Would Moriarty ever rape anybody? He doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.”

“He kidnapped and drugged you because he was bored, Sherlock!”

“Yes, and I’m convinced that’s all he did.” Sherlock sat up as best he could, crossing his legs under the blanket. “Look, perhaps you’re right and Moriarty is attracted to me. Even if he wanted to act on it, he wouldn’t do something so rushed and impulsive to do so. And he certainly wouldn’t drug me. The sex wouldn’t be the same for him if I were barely conscious for the duration of it. He would want me fully aware of my actions and giving consent on my own, so it could come around to torment me later. Not to mention, it would hurt you, that I had slept with him of my own free will, which increases the ‘afterglow’ for him. Do you see?” 

John’s brow was furrowed. As twisted as the reasoning was, it sounded...well, reasonable. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do see how that would work.” John desperately wanted to change the subject. “Are you actually going to eat anything?”

“IV drips exist for a reason, John.”

“Oh for the love of...” John scooped up a spoonful of egg and shoved it into Sherlock’s mouth. His eyebrows shot up and he swallowed automatically. “If I have to do that again, I’m going to take out your drip myself, understood?”

Sherlock glared, but obediently started to eat.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may be the fluffiest thing I've ever written.

“Greg, I really think this is a bad idea. He’s ungodly crabby from the medication they’ve given him and sometimes he doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“Still gotta talk to him, don’t I? Him being our main and only witness.” Lestrade stepped around John and into Sherlock’s hospital room. “Sherlock, you should know now that I’m only here because your brother wanted all of what happened to go on record.”

“Yes, so he can use it to blackmail me,” Sherlock mumbled. Lestrade pretended he didn’t hear as he took out a notebook and pen. “Why are you using pen and paper? That’s stupid, you should be using the microphone you’ve got on your phone.”

John stepped around the bed and put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, hoping to stave off the tirade of insults, observations and snarky commentary he was sure was on the way. Sherlock looked up at him and wriggled around a bit, enough that John’s hand was on the back of his neck. Lestrade raised his eyebrows, but wisely didn’t say anything. He cleared his throat and said, “Alright, so Sherlock, just tell me from the beginning. What happened that made you vanish for these past couple days?”

***

“My God, he’s going cage crazy,” Lestrade said over coffee. He and John had relocated to the hospital cafeteria, but only after Sherlock made John promise he’d be back in no less than twenty minutes. Even that took serious negotiation and the nurse coming in to try and sedate him when he got too riled up about it. 

“Yeah, yeah he really is.”

“How long’s he been here, anyway?”

“Maybe fifteen hours, if you count the ten or so he was asleep or knocked out.” Lestrade laughed. 

“Well, hope karma comes back around to you for staying with him. I couldn’t do it.”

“Difference is he likes having me around. No offense.”

“None taken, I was actually gonna ask you about that. Did something...I dunno, happen last night?”

To his horror, John could feel his cheeks heating. “Er, he just asked me to stay close, that’s all.” Lestrade grinned.

“In all seriousness, I’m glad he’s found somebody.” Lestrade put up a hand to stop John’s protest. “I didn’t mean it like that, I just mean in general. He was much, much worse before you two started living together, I mean downright cruel when he was having a bad day. He literally made a couple newbies leave the crime scenes sobbing when he felt like it. That thing you saw with Donovan and Anderson the first time, that was just the tip of the iceberg. ‘S why I don’t care that he points out my marriage issues. It’s better he go off on me than somebody who’s new and unprepared.” Lestrade took a swig of his coffee. “We all agreed a while back we like Sherlock After John a lot more than Sherlock Before John.”

“I’m flattered. Please tell me you don’t have some kind of pool running about us.”

“Well, that’s a moot point, seeing as even if there was one, I wouldn’t be able to tell you about it.”

“Speaking of our favorite Asperger's sufferer, I think my alloted time is about up. God only knows what he’ll do to the nurses if I’m not there.” John stood and shook Lestrade’s hand. “Tell the Yarders ‘lo from me.”

***

John was never sure what had happened between the Holmes brothers that made them so catty whenever the other was within half a mile. Whatever it was, it was in full effect now, as Mycroft was passive-aggressively lecturing Sherlock on being more careful while Sherlock brushed it off with insults and snide remarks about Mycroft’s diet. 

The man who’d rested a hand on his sick younger brother’s forehead was gone, replaced with a businesslike government employee interested in the facts of a rather creative kidnapping. The sweet, scared man who’d shyly asked for John’s physical presence last night was gone as well, replaced with a possessive, snobbish bastard who was giving his older brother a bad time and refusing to let John be more than a foot away.

John had just about had it with them both. And Sherlock’s hair was still dirty. “Ok, stop.” They actually did, looking at him with identical expressions. _Ha, can’t tell they’re related at all._ “Mycroft, d’you have everything you need?” John shifted his position and Sherlock pulled at his hand like an angry two-year-old. “Sherlock, stop it. Mycroft?”

Mycroft sighed through his nose and looked at his phone. “Yes, I believe I do. Dr. Watson.” Mycroft bowed his head and left without bothering to say goodbye to Sherlock. Sherlock mumbled something about political scandals and cake with his arms crossed. John rolled his eyes and stepped around the bed.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock sounded wounded.

“Gonna find someone who can wash your hair; it’s driving me mad.”

“No!” John turned, raising his eyebrows. Sherlock looked embarrassed. “I just...I don’t like people touching my hair is all.”

“Sherlock, you leave greasy imprints on your pillow when you sleep, it’s revolting.”

“I’ll wash it when we get home.”

“They’re not releasing you until tomorrow, it’s going to come to life by then.” Sherlock pulled his lips down. If John didn’t know any better, he’d have called it a pout. 

“I don’t want someone I don’t know touching my hair. Will you do it?”

John knew he was staring and didn’t care. “You want me to wash your hair for you? Why don’t you do it?”

“Because I don’t want to do it.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“I don’t care about the state of my hair, but you seem intent on cleaning it, and I won’t cooperate unless you do it for me.” 

“Oh bloody hell, alright, get up and we’ll use the bathroom.” Sherlock obliged, or tried to. His knees locked and he fell back.

“My legs have fallen asleep.” John sighed and crossed the room, putting Sherlock’s arm around his shoulders and helping him stand. Rather wobbily, they crossed to the loo. They’d taken out Sherlock’s drip about an hour ago in preparation for his going home the next day. John was immensely thankful for this.

John dragged a chair in the room with them and sat Sherlock down with his back to the sink. He wasn’t sure how the physics of this would work out, but the man’s hair really was disgusting. John said, “Ok, lean back. Now, move so your head’s...yeah, good. Hang on.” John plucked a bottle of shampoo out of the shower and turned on the sink’s water. 

“Can I have a towel around my shoulders?” 

“Oh, yeah, right.” John handed him one. As he put it around his shoulders, John noticed that when Sherlock put his hands back in his lap, he was clenching them. “I’m not going to rip your hair out...”

“I know that, John,” Sherlock snapped. He let out a breath and unclenched his hands, leaning back into the sink. 

John cupped his hands and dumped warm water on Sherlock’s curls, hearing a slight hiss from the other man. “Calm down.”

“Is that an order?”

“If that’s what it takes.” John pooled more water on his head until it was soaked. Then he squirted shampoo into his hand and started to massage Sherlock’s scalp. He ran his fingers through the curly black hair and cupped the back of his head, pressing slightly. From where John was, he could see the muscles in Sherlock’s neck and jaw were starting to relax. John continued to roll his fingers and knuckles in his hair, getting rather tangled. He pushed his hands forward and gently kneaded Sherlock’s temples. He could feel a nasty bump under his fingertips, probably from Sherlock's kidnapping. It was starting to scab a little. He pulled his fingers away, threading out hair and rinsing his hands. Sherlock had his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted, which, in John’s opinion, looked more than a little adorable. 

John took another towel and dried his hands. He patted Sherlock’s hair partially dry and said, “Ok, now can you do the rest yourself?” Sherlock gave a small smile as he took the towel from his shoulders and scrubbed at his hair. “Can you stand?”

“I don’t think so.” John supported him back to the bed and took the towel. Sherlock’s eyes started to drift shut. “Thank you for helping me, John.” 

“I probably shouldn’t have, looks like it tired you out.”

“No, I’m grateful,” Sherlock said, barely audible. He leaned back and closed his eyes. John smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

“Here.” John tossed the book he’d just bought into Sherlock’s lap. “You’ll probably finish it in five minutes, but I thought it might keep you entertained for a while.” It had taken him ages, but he’d finally found a puzzle book that seemed difficult enough for Sherlock. John dug around in his jacket pockets and found a pen, which he also threw on the bed.

Sherlock picked up the book and flipped through it, a smile growing on his face. He looked up, eyes sparkling. “Thank you, John.” John smiled involuntarily and sat down in his chair, opening the other book he’d bought. It was some dystopian young adult novel, looked mildly interesting. 

“John.” He looked up. Sherlock’s knuckles were white on the puzzle book. “Did you let anybody else touch this?”

“Yeah, I had the girl hold it behind the desk while I took a call. What is it?” Sherlock held the book out, his finger marking a page. John took it and opened it to the page he’d held. 

_I’ll see you when you get out, darling. Hope the drugs didn’t do too much damage._

_Jim_

John swallowed. “Great, he’s on a first-name basis with you now.”

“He never wasn’t on a first-name basis with me.” Sherlock exhaled. His hands were shaking again. John got up and sat on the bed next to him.

“Sherlock, calm down. This is exactly what he wants you to do.” He impulsively put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, a bit closer to the neck than was socially acceptable. The man’s muscles were as tight as a twisted rope. Sherlock let out another shuddery breath.

“Do you think he’s going to kill me?”

John wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “What?”

“Moriarty said that he’s going to kill me, someday. Do you think he’s going to do it soon? Or maybe he already tried, maybe that’s why I’m so _weak_ , because he tried to kill me with an overdose and failed. Or--”

“Sherlock, you told me this _morning_ that he didn’t have sex with you because he wouldn’t have liked you being unaware of it. D’you really think that he’d just inject you with poison, dust off his hands and walk away from the only person who could hold his own against him? If he really wanted you dead, I mean really just couldn’t stand the idea of sharing air with you anymore, he’d have a sniper take you out at a crime scene.” John pursed his lips and looked away, removing his hand.

“I know that,” he said quietly. “I _do_ know that. So why didn’t I think of that? What’s he done to me?”

“Gotten inside your head. Gotten inside all our heads. They’re releasing you tomorrow, we can leave this bloody place and get home. He’s never bothered us there.”

“Hasn’t he?” Sherlock said absentmindedly. 

“D’you know something I don’t?”

“No. Not at all. I was wondering if he’s done anything to the flat while we were away.”

“Sherlock, honestly, what can he possibly have done to the flat?”

“I don’t know, John! I don’t know what he’ll do, I don’t know why he took me, I don’t know what he wants from this, from any of this!” Sherlock covered his face with a trembling hand. 

John hated when he got like this. The only time he’d seen it this bad was situations that were wildly out of Sherlock’s hands and experience, like after he’d seen the hound or at the pool. He never had any idea of how to help him because the man was so bloody unresponsive to things that normal people would find comforting. 

Sherlock had gone still, obviously shaken. “Sherlock...if there’s anything I can do to help you...” 

He opened his eyes, which were just as frightened as they were the night before. “You seemed to be able to calm me down last night, it’s not a terribly hard deduction to make, John.” 

John was suddenly aware of the fact that his leg was touching Sherlock’s hip, and that Sherlock was nestling closer to him. John said, “Sherlock, you will be ok. I know there’s a lot of things related to Moriarty that I’m not clever enough to understand, and I’m ok with that.” Sherlock was still, barely blinking. John put a hand on his friend’s chest, which was rising and falling erratically. “But you’ve got to stay strong, Sherlock, you can’t let him get what he wants. He wants you to do something stupid or crazy because then he’ll have proved to himself and the world that he’s the cleverest one.”

“What if he is?”

“It doesn’t matter, not now. You’ve nearly died from his boredom and mind games, and I won’t have you doing it again.”

“He can do it whenever he likes, John.” Sherlock suddenly took John’s arm in a viselike grip.

“He does have an actual job, you know. Murders and all that. Mycroft thinks the only reason he did this to you was because he hadn’t had an interesting client in too long.”

“And is that all? Is that it? That’s all you’re going to say, and then we’re going to go home and everything will be the way it was again, right?” John opened his mouth, ready to respond with sarcasm, but the expression on Sherlock’s face stopped him. _Holy hell, he’s being sincere._

John leaned in. “Sherlock, not a month ago we were running around Dartmoor with a band of mad scientists and what may or may not have been a hellhound. Week before that, you stopped a dominatrix from bringing down Britain’s financial security. We don’t really have a way things were to go back to.” Sherlock let out a tiny smile. John brought his hand up to Sherlock’s face and wrapped his fingers around the back of his head. Sherlock’s eyes were slowly, slowly calming, his hands on John’s.

John had often wondered what it would be like to kiss his flatmate, although he’d never admit it. There had been more than one fantasy that took him to sleep. Sometimes John could picture himself snogging Sherlock senseless instead of lounging around the flat on nights with no work. But right now? No. No, it was too soon after an experience that had disturbed them both, it would only lead to tears later. Perhaps literally. 

That mouth of his was dead tempting, though. 

John contented himself with kissing Sherlock on the forehead, a gesture that seemed to calm him more than anything thus far. 

Sherlock took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for all of this, John. I could blame the medication, but I don’t even know if that’s what’s causing it.”

“If by it you mean letting me in for once, don’t apologize. I’ve been waiting for that.”

A crease appeared between Sherlock’s eyebrows. “Why?”

“Could be that you’re my best friend and I care about you.” He paused. There was no indication of understanding from the consulting detective lying in the hospital bed. He sighed. “Sherlock, believe it or not, I don’t follow the way your mind works, that’s why I get so frustrated with you sometimes. So I don’t...I don’t know if you...uh...” Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on his face, making it much harder to speak. “If you...feel the same way I do.” 

“I don’t understand. I’ve already told you you’re my friend.” Sherlock paused, brow still furrowed. “Do you mean romantically?” 

John sighed. “Hell if I know. Right now, all I know is that it would hurt worse than anything Moriarty could do to me if you were to die.”

Sherlock pressed his hands together under his chin. It gave John a surge of relief to see that familiar gesture. “If you’re wondering if I return the feelings of loyalty, the answer is a definite yes. If Moriarty were to hurt you, I would return it with interest.” John could practically see the urge for a nicotine patch come into his head. “As for any other possibilities...until you, I have considered myself asexual.”

“Until me?”

Sherlock looked away for a moment, obviously nervous. “I-I don’t want anything to happen to you...” John opened his mouth to protest that he was a metaphorical guinea pig on a daily basis, but Sherlock added, “That I can’t control. The experiments, when I drugged you at Baskerville, all those I could be sure you were safe. But when Moriarty had you hostage...I was barely able to keep in control.” He lapsed into silence, fingers still steepled.

“Sherlock, you said you considered yourself asexual until me. What d’you consider yourself now?”

Sherlock shot him a look. “Whatever the clinical term is for feeling affection for one person, regardless of gender.”

“I think some people call that only-gay-for-you-sexual.” Sherlock laughed, that low rumble that was pretty damn endearing. John smiled and touched him again, just barely brushing his pale fingers. As John made to move away, Sherlock sat up and grabbed his hand, pulling him close. They held for a moment, simply looking at the others’ face. 

“John?”

“Yes?”

“I would like you to kiss me.”

John had never met anybody who could so easily strike him dumb. Sherlock seemed more than capable of it on a daily basis, which had to take serious effort. Speaking of Sherlock, he was doing that staring-intently-and-blinking-far-less-than-any-other-human-would thing of his. And he was apparently waiting for an answer.

John cleared his throat, painfully aware of the fact that Sherlock had just licked his lips. “Do you--” his voice caught and he coughed, “--do you really want that?”

“Yes.” He looked it, too. He was suddenly steady, as if he’d been thinking about this moment for a long time. _Odds are good he has._

John was going to ask him various things, how he was feeling, if he was tired, if he perhaps wanted to discuss the side effects of the medication they’d shot into him. The words never made it past his vocal cords. Sherlock was still waiting. If he looked hard enough, John could see traces of need in the other man’s eyes.

John had never, not once, seen Sherlock needy before this whole bloody game of heroin began. It made him wonder if there was something else Moriarty had done to him. _What if he did get sexual with him? If Sherlock’s right, which he probably is, he wouldn’t have raped him because the satisfaction wouldn’t have been the same. But what if Moriarty himself didn’t know that until he tried? He doesn’t remember anything, God only knows what Moriarty did to him before he found he didn’t want to..._

At the moment, only one thing was for certain. Sherlock needed John, and John wasn’t about to disappoint him. 

John brought his hand up and around to cradle the nape of Sherlock’s neck at the back of his head. He pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s and let his fingers wander in his still-damp hair, bringing his other hand to Sherlock’s face.

Then he kissed him. 

His lips were soft against John’s and his body was still trembling. John was partially pressed against his friend’s chest; he could feel the involuntary shakes passing through his core. Sherlock pressed closer, his hands beginning to explore, grabbing at John’s face, neck, arms, hands, clothing, whatever he could find that would anchor him. The kiss was completely chaste, which was all John had expected. Anything more than a meeting of mouths, and he’d stop, no matter what his own desires about it were.

Sherlock had finally stopped shaking and he was perfectly steady against John. That’s when John knew, when he realized that this was what Sherlock had tried to accomplish with the bashful asking John to touch him and the angry clinginess. Whatever he’d done to help Sherlock, nothing had been enough until this. Sherlock had apparently come to the same conclusion, for he was letting out a rumble that melted into their mouths, sharing his pleasure.

Sherlock pulled away first, his eyes heavy-lidded. He had John’s left wrist in a death grip, but his face was remarkably relaxed. _Wonderful, I’m the new nicotine patch._

That wasn’t that bad a thought, actually.

Sherlock took a deep breath. “John...”

“What is it, Sherlock?” John asked, as gently as possible.

“I want to go home.”

John smoothed his curls, his fingers getting caught in Sherlock’s hair. “We will. We’re going to go home very soon.”

“And Moriarty?”

That gave John pause. “Sherlock, I can’t fight that battle for you. I can protect you until you’re better, though. Don’t think about him now. We’re going to go home in less than 24 hours, and you’ll be well then, ok?” Sherlock nodded. John embraced him quickly and stood. “I’m going to see if there’s any way we can get of here faster.” He started to leave.

“John?” He turned. Sherlock was sitting up, a flush of color on his cheekbones and lips. “Thank you.”

“That’s what friends are for.” They laughed.

***

Epilogue

***

There had been a short letter in slanted, spiky handwriting on Sherlock’s bed. John was supporting him to it the night they’d gotten home, as Sherlock’s legs were still uncooperative. Or perhaps he just liked being carried around. 

Sherlock had taken one look at the envelope sitting neatly on his pillows and turned snow white. John was sure he knew, but he asked anyway. “From him?” A mute nod. Sherlock sat on the bed and ripped open the note. His eyes flicked down it and he swallowed, clenching his jaw. He wordlessly handed the letter to John.

_You’re probably wondering why I’ve not bothered the two of you, especially with the lovely new developments between you. Very sexy, by the way. Well boys, I’ve been rather busy lately. I’ve got a new idea. I need the help of Big Brother. He’s more than happy to oblige, you’ll be glad to hear. I do apologize for what I did to you, Sherlock, it was unbearably rude, as I found out somewhere around the third injection._

_But I’ve got something big on it’s way to you, Sherlock. I owe you._

_XXX_

_JM_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just couldn't resist throwing in some Reichenbach taunts.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are appreciated, but reviews inspire.


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